


Remember how it was with you

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Car Sex, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:37:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a long drive, Dean tries really hard not to think about this totally flukey thing that happened between he and Sam. And fails. Which, after a brief tussle over geography, turns out to be awesome, actually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember how it was with you

The tape deck broke somewhere west of Abilene, just clean stopped out in the middle of nowhere between west Texas and the really crummy parts of New Mexico. It started growling, grinding against its gears, spitting out long strands of chewed-up tape into Dean's unhappy fingers.

Dean blamed Sam for force-feeding his baby a mixtape of Train and Creed. Driver picks the music, Sam countered. Sam blamed Dean for not cleaning the tape heads in 10 years. Never needed to, Dean huffed. Classic rock kept her pipes clean; Scott Stapp made her constipated.

That argument lasted for 30 miles.

Only 550 more to go.

They were headed to Silver City, some backwater out past Las Cruces, trying to beat the rise of the full moon. And the full lunar eclipse that was coming with it. Apparently, this was big bad news for the locals, who tended to tangle with the occasional werewolf in the best of times. But lunar eclipse + full moon + werewolves = a town full of puppy chow. Times like this brought out not one werewolf, according to the lore, but at least five. Maybe more. So they were kinda in a hurry.

But Dean had gotten depressed in Abilene. God, he hated west Texas--all the dirt and the oil and the smug rich creeps juxtaposed with scrubby farms and sagging ranch houses. He'd dragged Sam to some wildcatters' bar, dumped him in a booth, and planted himself on a barstool. Half a dozen shots later, he'd caught a glimpse of Sam in the barroom mirror, laughing with a pretty dark haired girl who looked like Jess' evil twin, so he introduced himself to four or five more shots, after which he stopped feeling or caring or remembering until he woke up late the next morning, sick, disoriented, and even more depressed.

They didn't get started until almost two: Sam driving, him drooping in the front seat, nursing a bottle of water and chomping Tylenol like Skittles.

And now this. Jesus.

He fiddled half-heartedly with the radio, hoping against hope that Texas had developed some decent taste in music. Christian. Country. Christian Country. Spanish gangsta rap. He considered leaving it there just to torture Sam, but his head hurt and he was hungover and damn if he just didn't have the stomach for it.

He snapped the radio off with a flourish and glared at Sam. "Thanks a lot, asshole."

Sam scowled into the setting sun. "Give me a break. It's not my fault that you don't conduct routine maintenance on your car."

Dean spluttered. "I'll show you...routine your...maintenance!" he managed, opting for volume over coherence. Didn't sound as good as it had in his head.

Sam snorted. Didn't even bother to respond.

Dean stretched, grumbling, and stuck his head out of the window for a minute, trying to cool off. The seats were sticky, his t-shirt was soaked, and his head was killing him. Worst of all, Sam was driving, guaranteeing that what should be at most a 10-hour drive would take at least 12. The makings of a miserable day right there.

No tunes on top of that? Recipe for a fucking disaster.

He slid back into the seat, closed his eyes. Listened to the air rushing by his head. Tried not to feel the sun in his face.

The silence made his head hurt.

**  
When he woke up, it was dark. Still hot as all get out, but at least the damn sun wasn't hanging in his eyes. He lay still for a moment. He could feel Sam breathing steady and slow behind his head, the car vibrating under him, through the seat, over the road. Looked up and saw the steering wheel, naked. Felt Sam's arm, heavy and familiar, draped over his shoulder, fingers resting on his hip.

He sat up, wincing, feeling the imprint of denim dug into his cheek.

"How'd you sleep?" Sam asked, as if this whole scenario was totally normal. As if Dean routinely slept in his lap.

"Uh," Dean said, blinking, sliding towards the passenger's side. "Ok. I guess."

Sam nodded, his eyes fixed straight ahead.

See, there had been this thing. Totally flukey, fueled by adrenaline and exhaustion and whatever else they'd had to drink that night. Not a big deal, not really, Dean told himself; just this thing between them that he'd decided they'd never talk about. That he pretended hadn't happened, because, again, it was nothing major, but it could have become a huge pain in the ass if either of them had looked at it too closely. Obviously. So they'd moved on. Over and out.

But the thing had this really annoying habit of appearing in his mind out of nowhere, of rushing into any moments of silence between them. So Dean had been careful not to leave any gaps, any cracks in the daylight hours for the thing to sneak through. Music in the car at all times, period. TV on in their room until right before they went to bed. Preferably after, but Sam couldn't sleep with it on, so Dean pretended to go right the fuck to sleep once Letterman or the local news or the random Hitler documentary was over. Silence only in sleep with as little conversation as possible.

Two weeks of this shit, and Dean was getting pretty good at it. He'd almost convinced himself that they'd beaten the thing back into the darkness. That they'd burned its bones with 14 straight days of AC/DC, Queen, Mötley Crüe blasting at full volume. Of no talking past lights out. Of staying at arm's length. Of not looking each other in the eye, exactly.

But.

But now the thing could have its chance, if they weren't careful, and Dean had already broken one of the rules. In his sleep, ok, but still. And Sammy hadn't really helped with the whole putting-his-arm-around-Dean routine.

Great.

Dean reached for the bottle of Tylenol, which sounded disturbingly low. He popped three into his palm, swallowed. Leaned his head against the door and looked pointedly out the open window. Not at Sam. Let the wind hit him full in the face, pushing the dust up and forcing his eyes to close. Traced the cut that Sam's jeans had pressed into his cheek.

Most definitely did not remember how that denim had felt under his palm as Sam shifted under him, laughing, the smell of whiskey heavy in his breath, laughter curving into a sigh as he slid his tongue into Dean's mouth, his arm locking around Dean's waist, pulling him down into--

Dean blinked.

Shit.

So then he tried counting, but he got tangled up in the 120s. He recited the exorcism ritual in his head. Three times. Tried conjugating the two Spanish verbs that he remembered from high school. Listed the first and last names of the members of Zeppelin. The Who. Guns and Roses. Van Halen--all three versions. Started in on the states and capitals. Got stuck on Missouri. Missouri. Jesus, what was the--?

"It's Jefferson City," Sam said.

"Gah!" Dean jumped straight up.

Sam grinned, his face lit up by the moon that was slowly peddling overhead. "You need to work on your internal monologue skills, dude. You've been whispering about states and capitals for like 10 minutes."

Dean tried to rally. "Whatever," he huffed. "I'm pretty sure it's St. Louis."

Sam shot him a look. "Really? You're sure?"

"Look, not everyone here is an award-winning geography nerd, Sammy, but I've driven through Missouri enough times to know: it's definitely St. Louis."

"You wanna bet on that?" Sam said, chuckling.

Uh, no. _Hell no_ , thought Dean, all kinds of alarm bells going off in his head. But Sam looked way too confident. No--he looked fucking smug, which really pissed Dean off. The little bastard thought he was so smart. And hell, even discussing geography was better than riding in silence for the next six hours, better than thinking about how Sam had pulled his hair, hard, yanked his head back and grinned against his neck, slid his mouth up behind Dean's ear and whispered--

"Hell yes," said Dean. "You're on."

Sam turned his head, grinning. "Don't you wanna know my terms?"

Probably not.

"Laundry for a week?"

"Nope," Sam said.

"50 bucks?"

"Nah."

Dean spread his hands wide. "Don't keep me guessing here, sunshine."

Sam gave him a little smile that was more dangerous than a loaded shotgun. "Well," he said. "You already agreed, right? So let's say winner picks the terms."

Oh hell no.

"Fine," Dean said.

"Fine," said Sam.

Ten more miles rolled by. Dusty. Empty.

"The atlas is under your seat," Sam pointed out.

"Right," Dean said. He leaned over and dug around, came up with the atlas, which, frankly, had seen better days. Like two decades worth.

He took his time, paging through California, tracing the mustard stains Sam had trailed through Florida when he was a kid, turned Massachusetts carefully where he'd ripped the page in two as Sam and their dad had gone at it, years ago. Then he sat there for a few miles, cradling Missouri in his lap.

Sam seemed content just to drive, so Dean let himself just ride for a while.

Five more miles ticked by.

"So you're forfeiting," Sam said, and there was that fucking smugness again, and damn if Dean was so not in the mood for that shit.

"No, I'm not forfeiting, dickweed. I'm just delaying your inevitable defeat."

Sam laughed. "Gosh, thanks for looking out for me," he breathed, fluttering his eyelashes at Dean in the dark. "I can always count on you to protect me."

Ok, that did it.

"Prepare to forfeit your nerd badge," Dean gritted, shoving the atlas up into the dash, tilting it towards the moonlight. "You're going down, Sam."

"Hmm," Sam said, leaning back behind the wheel. "You wish."

Dean flushed. Damn it. He so had not until Sam had said that. Jesus. Not cool.

He fumbled with the pages, looking for St. Louis, for the star on the city that would shut Sam up and leave them hours and hours of awkward silence. Which, at the moment, was looking pretty damn awesome in comparison.

"Do you need some help?" Sam asked sweetly, and Dean's arm shot out automatically, before he could stop it, his fist bouncing off of Sam's shoulder, his knuckles catching bone and muscle. Startled, he yanked his hand back, his fingers burning in time with his face.

Because, see, that's how it had started before, that thing between them: one half-hearted punch to Sammy's shoulder, and he'd gone down, flailing, laughing, his balance shot to hell and his sense of humor turned up to 11. He'd grabbed Dean's wrist and pulled him over, both of them collapsing into a heap on the floor, giggling, trapped between that night's twin beds. Dean had banged his head on the nightstand and howled, which only made Sam laugh harder, made him reach for Dean's head, cooing. Dean had reached down, tried to steady himself against Sam's hip, and his hand had caught on Sam's thigh, the denim warm under his palm. He remembered Sam chuckling in his ear, shifting under him, tucking his mouth into Dean's, sighing, one arm catching Dean's waist, the other stroking the back of his neck.

The taste of whiskey on his tongue.

On Sam's.

He stared at the map, the borders between Missouri and Kansas blurring in the darkness, the Mississippi River snaking off the page, no capital cities in sight.

Sam reached over and grabbed the atlas out of his hands. Propped it up on the steering wheel, squinting at it in the cloudy light.

Dean crossed his arms and sat back. Closed his eyes. Tried really fucking hard not to think.

Failed.

Sam cleared his throat. "It's Jefferson City," he said.

Dean felt the atlas land next to his leg.

"See?" Sam wheedled.

Dean opened his eyes. Looked down at the star behind the words. "Yeah," he sighed. "I guess you were right."

Sam shot him a look. "You guess? Dude, it's right there on the map."

"Ok!" Dean snapped. "You're a fucking genius, all right? A geographical savant."

Sam was silent for a few miles. Then:

"Don't you want to know my terms?" he asked, his eyes locked on the road, his voice maybe a little hurt, _and holy shit was that unfair_ , thought Dean, scowling.

"Fine," he snapped. "Tell me what you've won, Sammy."

Sam didn't say anything. Just let the silence hang between them, which, again, total bullshit move on his part.

"Look," Dean started, "this is a limited time offer here, so you'd better just tell me what--"

Sam didn't answer, just swung the car off the road suddenly, sliding her to a stop in the shoulder. Turned off the ignition. Stared straight ahead.

Let the quiet close in on them, creep over them like the Blob or something, smothering and see-through and constricting all at once.

"Dean," Sam sighed. "This has to stop."

Dean peeked over at him. Sam's face was, predictably, open and earnest. And sweet. Damn it.

He looked out at the road, hung with shadows as the moon fell in and out of the clouds. Quiet.

"Dean," Sam said again, reaching for his arm. "Please. We have to talk about this."

Dean's eyes snapped up, caught Sam full in the face. "What?" he barked. "What is the big fucking deal here?"

Sam scoffed, didn't move his hand away. "Come on," he said, "do you really want me to say it?"

No. Yes.

Yes.

Dean just sat there, staring, ignoring the way his arm was humming in Sam's grip.

Sam sighed.

And then he laughed.

Not just chuckled or something, but threw back his head and cackled, letting go of Dean's arm and grabbing the steering wheel with both hands, rocking with laughter.

Which. What?

Sam covered his face with his hands and hooted, his body shaking. And yeah, he did look kinda funny, and, ok, maybe Dean couldn't help but laugh as Sam started giggling and hiccuping at the same time, like he had when he was a little kid.

Sam leaned forward, steadying himself against the wheel, hiccuping faster than he could breathe, and now Dean was bent over too, choking with laughter, watching Sam try to keep his shit together, not totally sure what was so fucking hilarious, but feeling two weeks' worth of tension spiraling out of his mouth, twining itself with Sam's and spinning up above them, out into the middle of nowhere.

Sam turned to him, tears streaming down his face, grinning like an idiot. "You're such a fucking moron, Dean," he managed between hiccups.

Dean grinned, suddenly too giddy, too stupid with happiness to keep the thing between them at bay. "Love you too, Sammy," he said, ruffling Sam's hair.

Sam smiled at him again and he kind of forgot to take his hand away. Kind of let his fingers just rest there. Wind themselves into Sam's hair.

Sam leaned his head back into Dean's hand. Sighed.

They sat there for a moment, grinning at each other, letting the thing that had happened come all the way out of the dark, let it sit between them. Let it get comfortable.

Which it did. Way too easily for Dean's comfort, if he'd been thinking about it. Which he wasn't.

Sam sighed again and kind of rolled himself down Dean's arm, smashed his mouth into Dean's, his limbs swinging awkwardly around them, his elbow smashing into the door frame as he pulled Dean's tongue between his teeth, still hiccuping, which was so not a turn on that Dean grabbed the back of Sam's neck, pulling him down, buried his tongue in the back of Sam's throat. He leaned back, trying to catch all of Sam's body in his arms, but the son-of-a-bitch was so big and and the front seat was so not that he just couldn't. He growled, frustrated, yanked his mouth away and kind of pulled Sam over and down, flipping himself into Sam's lap, planting his knees on either side of one massive leg.

But Sam kept wiggling, one giant arm wheeling out of the open window, shifting his hands and his hips until his fingers were caught in the belt loops of Dean's jeans, until his mouth was open and pliant and completely overwhelming.

He made the most amazing sound, needy and dark, and Dean's whole body jerked in response, his head richoching off the roof, his hips flying up and smashing down against Sam's thigh, his cock entirely too pleased by all of it. He moaned into Sam's mouth, damn it, which was so not his thing, but Sam was still holding his waist, and he was guiding Dean's hips back and forth across his thigh as he let Dean devour his mouth and ok, maybe nobody could resist that, especially as Sam kept up a chorus of sighs and hums and gasps that were really kind of criminal in the way they made Dean's heart race and his cock buzz and his mouth feel infinite and too small all at once.

Dean's hands were flying around Sam's head as they kissed, gripping the back of the seat, grabbing Sam's shoulders, curling around his head, reaching for the ceiling. He was wheeling, careening around the small space between them, perpetual motion all that stood between him and spontaneous combustion. He felt Sam's fingers close around one flailing hand, felt him yank it down. Felt his palm catch Sam's cock, which, apparently, was as happy about the whole exercise as Dean's. Sam pushed himself against Dean's hand, gasping, the little bastard, his mouth falling away with a wet smack.

He made that noise again, needy and full and god, so dark, and fuck if Dean could resist that. As if he'd even try.

Instead, he squeezed, gently, felt the blood pulse under his hand, under the denim, felt Sam's breathy whine in his ear.

"Dean," he panted, his voice broken in all the right places.

Dean kept his grip on Sam's cock, nuzzled his neck, stroking that long sullen hair with his free hand. "Hmmm?" he murmured, with maybe a little more tongue than was entirely necessary. "Right here, Sammy."

Sam was vibrating under him, his whole body strung and taut. For Dean.

"Know that," Sam breathed. "Dean. Know you're--" His voice trailed off into incoherent slush as Dean bit his ear and worked his fingers against Sam's cock, which, admittedly, was totally not fair on Dean's part, but god he got off on seeing Sam this buzzed, this out of it, this hot and his and Jesus if he didn't have Sam's cock in his mouth soon they both might come like this, locked together, awkward and tight and right, and the longer he held Sam in his hand, the better that sounded.

But.

But he pulled himself away, ignoring Sam's cry of protest, winging his head on the ceiling again and not feeling a damn thing. He fumbled for the door handle and fell out of the car, tumbling off of Sam's lap and into the dirt. He scrambled up, yanked Sam out of the front seat, and shoved him towards the back door. Sam staggered, all the blood sunk low in his body suddenly needed by his brain, but he rallied, pulling the door open and throwing himself inside, falling onto his back.

Dean crawled after him, laughing, sliding his fingers under Sam's belt and pulling his jeans open. Sam's cock tumbled into his hand and damn if Sammy wasn't even more incoherent, moaning and mumbling and trying hard just to keep all of his body inside the damn car, one leg hanging out past Dean's hip, dangling out of the open doorway. Dean just held him gently, feeling Sam jerk and rise and slide between his fingers, listening to Sam's voice float out into the silence. It was dark, god, it was dark, but every now and then the moon would slip out and Dean could see every curve, every arch, every line in Sam's body reaching for him.

It hadn't been like this, before. They'd both been too drunk or high on each other or fucking exhausted to make it last, and Sammy was such a good kisser, and Dean's cock had been so pleasantly surprised by that fact, that Sam had only stroked him a few times, pulled his long fingers up and down and over and fuck, practically through, before Dean had lost it, spilled himself all over Sam's hand, sweet and sloppy and whatever it was, it had gotten Sam so hot that he'd come almost as soon as Dean touched him, the head of his cock fat and swollen in Dean's palm and then wet and full and Jesus, the sound that Sammy had made had been ringing in Dean's ears for two weeks, undimmed by music and television and all the other shit he'd tried to throw over it. And now he wanted to hear it again.

He took Sam into his mouth all at once, and Sam screamed, for some reason, surprised or afraid or maybe both. Dean figured he should go easy, should be gentle with this beautiful criminal creature under his hands, caught deep in his throat. But fuck that. He planted his hands on Sam's thighs, fingers slipping across his skin, sucking, pulling, drinking in the god-awful noises Sam was making, out here in the middle of nowhere, his head bouncing off the car door as he bucked into Dean's mouth.

He could feel Sam's body growing tighter and tighter under his hands, could hear his cries shifting up into an octave that could make the fucking ground shake. He looked up towards Sam's face, hidden in shadow, and the moon popped out just then, letting Sam's eyes meet his and then Sam came, god, so fast and sweet and fucking loud that Dean came right to the edge himself, gasping and swallowing and reeling at the look on Sam's face: love and desperation and desire fighting over his features, twisting in his eyes, hanging on his lips.

Nobody had ever looked at Dean that way before.

And it felt like a knife to the heart, an embrace, a gunshot, a fuck all at once.

He rocked back on his heels in the dust, shaken, letting Sam's body slide out from his hands, his mouth.

He just sat there for a minute, listening to Sammy's breathing slow, feeling his heart banging in his chest, watching the moon, white and silver and almost full, turn unseeing in the sky.

So.

He heard a rustle and Sam's boot shot out, caught him in the side unawares. He fell back with a grunt, sprawled out suddenly in the dirt.

"Dean?" Sam said from the edge of the seat, his legs falling out of the door, his boots kicking up dust. He'd managed to hitch his jeans back up, sort of, but he was swaying, weaving even as he sat still. He looked happy and exhausted and crazy all at once, shadows racing across his face. "Dean?" he repeated, his voice still slurry, his words slow and flushed.

Dean sat up, pressed his palms into the ground. Kicked his leg out and snapped his boot into Sam's ankle.

"Ow!" Sam howled. "Jesus!"

Dean rolled up, planted his hands on either side of Sam's waist. Snaked his face up until Sammy's lips were flush with his own. "If you insist," he said, smirking. "Though 'my Lord and Savior' would also be acceptable."

"Ha ha," Sam managed, gasping, grabbing for him, kissing him so hard that his teeth rattled, and, yeah, it was so not his fault that he made a completely embarrassing noise, pleading and high and way sweeter than it should have been. Sam swallowed it, teased another out with his tongue, reached under Dean's shirt and stroked his side, gently, until he was pressing all of his weight against Sam's hand, into his mouth, begging to be touched, to have Sam's hands all over him at once.

He could hear himself moaning, rattling in his throat, but all he could feel were Sam's nails scraping down his back, peeling off his shirt, then raking over his neck, his chest, his arms. He tried to stand up, to push Sam back onto the seat, but Sam held him fast, and it wasn't that he was stronger than Dean, exactly, it was more like Dean's bones were rubber, sloppy and swaying and putty under Sam's hands, and he was so far fucking gone that he didn't even care, just let himself be molded, pulled, kissed, driven halfway past mad.

Sam grabbed his arms and swung him up on to the seat, sliding out onto the ground and clamping his hands on Dean's hips, not letting him move, not letting him breathe, and Dean reached out, tried to get a fistful of Sam's hair, but the little bastard was faster. In one swoop, he ducked his head down, yanked Dean's fly open, and curled his lips around Dean's cock, leaving Dean grabbing at the air over his head. Dean shouted, cursed, kind of fell over as he felt Sam grinning around his cock, which, come on, unfair, but holy fuck did it feel good.

His hands were flying around again, grabbing at Sam's head, his shoulders, the seat, the doorframe, the dust, and he knew he wasn't going to last, and that was a fucking shame because Sam was way too good at this and goddamn if he didn't know it, dragging his tongue around Dean's head as he sucked, humming, so pleased with himself that Dean would have slapped him if only his arms were responding to his commands and not to Sam's mouth.

He looked out over Sam's head, the darkness heavy and hot and all theirs. Felt Sam stroking the inside of his thigh, murmuring god knew what into his cock. Reached down, shaking, pulled Sam's hair as hard as he could, which was kind of a dick move, but it made Sam groan, made him pitch back for a second, pulling Dean's cock with him. He smiled up at Dean, dark and knowing and happy, his lips sliding around Dean's cock, and fuck that was it, that was fucking _it_. Dean's hips shot forward, his head snapped back, and he lost himself in Sam's mouth, pouring out everything he had and a little bit more, held up by Sam's hand around his hip, swaying, keening, screaming Sam's name into the middle of nowhere, shoving it out into the dark, breaking the quiet into a thousand pieces that fell around Sam's shoulders, silver and white and glass, tiny pieces of Dean trapped inside each one.

Sam sat up. Kissed him, gently this time. Not asking too much. Which was good, because Dean couldn't-- Yeah. Exactly.

Sam tipped his head back and they smiled at each other for a while, swaying in the heat, Dean's hands on Sam's shoulders, Sam's arms around his waist.

"So," Dean said hoarsely.

"Yeah," said Sam. "Exactly." He grinned. "I should call you a fucking moron more often."

Dean shoved him and Sam fell back, laughing, sprawled out in the dust, beautiful and sloppy and stupid.

Dean stood up carefully, balancing his weight against the doorframe. Sam watched him as he slid everything back into place, buttoned his fly. Looked around. "Sammy," he said, squinting into the darkness. "Where's my shirt?"

Sam snorted and scrambled up. "No fucking clue," he sang, diving past Dean into the backseat. "But we're on a tight schedule here, so--chop chop, Dean. Get to driving."

Dean spun around, outraged, but Sam slammed the passenger door in his face, giggling. Dean threw up his hands, gave up on his shirt. Slid around the hood and into the front seat. Turned the key. Pulled her gently back onto the road. Pointed her towards the moon, which was starting to fall back into the horizon.

Truth be told, he felt awesome. Felt like he could run all the way to Silver City if he needed to. Which was a little weird, maybe.

Sam's voice slid up behind his ear. "Do you think at some point we could do this in a bed, Dean? Like normal people?"

"Maybe," Dean said, smiling at him in the rearview mirror.

"Hmmm," Sam rumbled, his head slipping lower onto his chest, his body sliding down into the seat.

Dean watched the road, nodding his head in time to the beats his baby counted over the asphalt.

"Dean?"

"Sammy."

"Can we take our clothes off next time?"

"Don't push it, Sam."

"'Kay," Sam mumbled from somewhere under the seat.

Dean drummed his fingers on the wheel, grinning like an idiot into the darkness, which was so fucking ridiculous. Such a cliche. But he didn't care.

"So can I quote you on that out of context?" Sam asked, resting his chin suddenly on Dean's shoulder.

Dean snorted, shoved his palm against Sam's forehead and pushed, none too gently. Sam fell back, chuckling, flopping dramatically across the backseat.

"Go to sleep, Sam," Dean said, hearing the affection hanging naked in his voice and so not caring. He heard Sam sigh, heard the seat protest as Sam stretched out, limbs spilling under and over and through. Heard his breathing deepen, slow. Tumble over into sleep.

So they drove west all night, chasing the full moon and the lunar eclipse, the werewolves and the silver bullets, and whatever else lay over the next hill.

The thing between them sat next to Dean in the front seat, looking entirely too pleased with itself. "Told you so," it whispered in his ear.

"Yeah yeah," said Dean, grinning into the distance, the air growing high and light around them. "I remember."

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from the lyrics to Deadmaus/Kascade's song "I Remember." And there you go.


End file.
